DUNKIRK SPIRIT

100 days have passed, and Belgium still has no Federal government. The domestic and foreign press are now talking quite seriously about a definitive split. Belgium is "dead", apparently, and according to The Economist, it's "Time to call it a day". Flanders and Wallonia will most likely become independent states, and like a divorced couple, will bicker over custody of Brussels. Brussels could end up being some kind of European answer to Washington D.C. with its own special status, although there are varous scenarios being bandied about.

I suppose Flanders and Wallonia will have to go to the back of the queue to join the EU then?

A Belgian colleague referred to her nation as "an unstable country" this morning. Gulp! I have lived through coups d'etat in Africa, but I never envisaged that moving to Belgium would be in any way as dangerous. We Brussels bloggers could be marooned here with only beer and chocolate to sustain us! If anyone knows Richard Branson or Philip Green, perhaps they could be persuaded to set up a fund to see us through the terrible times to come. I have started stockpiling sugar, toilet rolls and make-up remover, we could be looking at an apocalyptic scenario. Should Aunty Marianne make a special visit to the Pope? If anyone can persuade him, she can.

Meanwhile I'm putting on my tin hat. The webbing holds the fruit in place nicely. When the troops come marching in I must look my best. I do like a man in uniform. Any uniform.

On reflection, it could be worse.

Does my bum look big in this?

Out of the corner of my eye I see my blog has just turned the 20,000 hits mark. I should be excited, but in the face of the disappearance of Belgium, it all seems quite trivial. I feel a sense of impending doom.

So many chips, so little time.

WALK, DON'T RUN

The long absence, dear readers, was due to a midweek trip to the UK on Eurostar. It certainly goes along at a fair old clip now the new rails are in place on the UK side. While in the UK I had to make a few journeys by inland railways, and was most pleasantly surprised to find that ALL my trains were on time. Not only that, but they were clean, quiet, and comfortable. Things have certainly changed since I was a gel. I put it down to that chap Bob Crowe, nothing like a Millwall-supporting Marxist to restore order on the networks. He should stand for Mayor.

I much prefer to travel by train than by air, especially since all this new security screening started. Every time I go through security, whatever the airport, I have to take my shoes off. At Brussels airport they are particularly draconian. Last time I travelled they made me sit barefoot while they put my shoes through the scanner on their own. I appreciate that they have to treat all passengers the same, but they obviously have no idea of the price of a pair of Jimmy Choos. If I was going to attack the pilot, I'd use a pair of Scholl sandals, far more robust, and cheaper.

A lady can never have too many pairs of shoes. Apart from a different colour pair of slippers to match every negligee, a gel needs shoes in varying degrees of comfort, dressiness, summer and winter collections, boots, sandals, mules, slingbacks, loafers, court shoes (for her day in court), espadrilles, heels, flatties, and at least one pair that requires being carried from the car to the restaurant. The only type of shoe I do not possess is a running shoe. Having high colouring and weak ankles, I do not run under any circumstances. I do not wish to be found in a wheezing crumpled crimson heap as the number 29 recedes into the distance. I walk sedately, and am frequently late. But my pearls are never out of place when I arrive.

A COLLECTIVE COUGH

I'm feeling a bit delicate this morning, after a stonking Friday night in the pub with a bunch of people who looked vaguely familiar. The house band Take This, despite being older than the Rolling Stones, were on great form and got the whole pub on their feet. I seem to remember dancing on a chair at some point singing "500 Miles", and surely I imagined a long involved conversation (although God knows how, you couldn't hear yourself think) with a Tory MP? I don't know which one, but I don't think it was Boris Johnson. Worst of all, I think I was drinking PINTS OF LAGER. Oh, the shame.

To soothe my thumping hangover, I'm listening to a bit of opera. Click on the pink bar, top left (a new feature! Thanks to MKWM for the idea). In memory of the late, VERY great (in every sense of the word) Luciano Pavarotti, who is being buried today in Modena (pity the poor pallbearers!) I give you Nessun Dorma. If you lived over the pub where the band where playing until 2.00 a.m. last night, you'd know how true that is.

A very Belgian protest has begun in the next street. Three months after the elections, there is still no Federal government. The three autonomous regions function perfectly well on a day-to-day level - hospitals, schools, emergency services all still work normally, and the various civil services keep the country ticking over. In fact, you start to wonder if they even need a Federal government. (That, perhaps, is the point). But certain things have to be dealt with at Federal level. At the moment Belgium has no foreign policy. No change there, then, you might say. But what about Defence? Without a coherent defence policy the country is laid wide open to any Tom, Dirk or Henri who might spot a breach in the dyke, so to speak. What if the wily French tried to invade Flanders? Arriving in droves on bicycles with onions around their necks, flooding the country with fabulous food and excellent wine, and speaking their shoulder-shrugging nasal whine with added hand movements? Unthinkable. Or - even worse - if the Dutch tried to take over Wallonia? Hidden inside caravans, speaking perfect English, handing out spliffs ... simply dreadful. I don't think we've got much to fear from the Germans this time around, but it's a worrying situation. The good Belgian burghers in my part of town have devised a robust method of protest against this appalling situation. They are hanging the national flag out of their windows. To remind their compatriots that they should think of themselves as Belgian first, and Walloon or Flamand second. Fat chance. Bear in mind that my leafy suburb is a bit like Cheam. This is the middle-class Belgian's equivalent of burning cars. It's like a big collective "AHEM!" That should bring them to their senses.

SOFIA SO GOOD

I have just returned from a flying visit to Sofia in Bulgaria, where I played a crucial part in the KNOB's attempt to woo south-eastern Europe away from techno music. We (I now consider myself a full member of KNOB) always try to adapt our music to the style of the host country, and so I dressed up in multicoloured petticoats, with giant gold hoop earrings and a fringed shawl, and had to bang a tambourine and dance about a bit in wild gipsy fashion, a bit like Maureen O'Hara in The Hunchback of Notre Dame, or Theda Bara in Cecil B. De Mille's 1915 version of "Carmen", while Bert and the boys trumped their way through a medley of Balkan favourites. The tambourine was a bit off-putting to tell you the truth, as it kept putting me in mind of my old Aunty Alice, who was with the Salvation Army, and I had to stop myself from bursting into "Jesus wants me for a sunbeam". We came second, losing by a whisker to Branko Bob and his Balkan Bangers.

After the contest we were taken to a restaurant where traditional music and dancing was promised. The food was cold and frankly inedible, and the wine so vile that I felt a hangover surfacing after only one glass, and hence had a rather sober evening. A lady in traditional garb appeared and warbled atonically, while a chap played complex tunes on an inflated sheep carcass and a couple of young ladies in tartan aprons pirouetted around waving large cheeses, which was a fairly accurate comment on the entertainment. I had never realized the Birdy Song was an old Bulgarian folk song. And this was in Sofia, the capital - Varna must be the Blackpool of the Black Sea. I was on an involuntary diet for the whole three days, as the food was not really to my liking. If it hadn't been for the yoghurt I'd have wasted away.

Meanwhile more intellectual pursuits were going on in the park, in the shadow of the luxurious Grand Hotel. Chess (rather than sumo wrestling) is the spectator sport of the masses in Bulgaria. Burly shaven-headed truck driver types were playing blitz, the pieces falling in rapid succession, while a crowd stood around and watched intently, occasionally making comments along the lines of "nice gambit, Phil" or sucking their teeth. A combination of muscle and brains that would make the Mitchell brothers gawp in awe. These were men who would checkmate you before dragging you away by your hair. I felt quite weak at the knees. Mind you, that could have been from hunger.

Photo: J.Gillis

HELLO BIG BOY

This will have to be a quickie, as I've been called away at short notice to bang something for the K.N.O.B.* in Bulgaria! I hope to be back with you early next week, but meanwhile I will leave you to ponder this photograph of Mahlyanov Kaloyan Stefanov, a Bulgarian sumo wrestler who is big in Japan. In fact he's big anywhere, as he measures 6'8". He has remarkably low body fat for a sumo wrestler and is causing quite a stir in the Land of the Rising Sun, where he is known as Kotooshu. This is a publicity shot for the Bulgarian yogurt company that sponsors him. I may never buy Danone again.

Um, what's Bulgarian for "do you live with your parents?"

* Kurt Nachtnebel Oompah Band, for those of you who have been living in a cave. You know who you are, Osama!